


Truisms

by shihadchick



Category: U2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-30
Updated: 2010-05-30
Packaged: 2017-10-09 19:16:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shihadchick/pseuds/shihadchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say an eavesdropper never hears good of themselves. Edge wishes he'd paid more attention when his mother told him that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truisms

**Author's Note:**

> War-era fic, for the [](http://community.livejournal.com/anothergrape/profile)[**anothergrape**](http://community.livejournal.com/anothergrape/) challenge. I took a fairly broad meaning for 'voyeurism' here.

The significance was lost on you, the first time. The buzzing murmur of raised voices, cut off as a door closed with a careless slam. Bono and Adam, you noted with the minimum of interest, but assuming it was some sort of artistic or personal difference, you let it be. Neither was particularly uncommon at that point, and you didn't think much of it.

What you did think more of was the tight strained expressions both of them were wearing at the next full rehearsal, the tension filling the entire space so that it felt no bigger than the small kitchen you'd started out in. You and Larry shot each other concerned looks and wrapped things up as quickly as you could, letting them go their separate ways and hopefully cool down. Neither of them seemed to notice the speaking looks behind their rigid (uncompromising) backs.

The morning after a birthday celebration that had seemed to hinge on your consuming enough booze to forget every year previous, you had surfaced into a bleary hangover, stumbling slowly down for breakfast (feeling more inclined to curl up and feel sorry for yourself), dimly aware around the blinding headache that you apparently weren't the only one who'd suffered the whipped cream treatment.

The pillow you'd fallen into (face-first, with the deep relief of the exceptionally intoxicated) had been liberally - disgustingly - speckled with tiny marks from those parts of your face that escaped washing in the half-hearted job they'd let you do in the bathroom afterwards. You had been uncomfortably aware that the neck of your last clean shirt seemed to have picked up a stain too - possibly from the clothes you'd thrown in the general direction of the suitcase at the foot of the bed (or so you'd deduced, anyway, since around drink seven or eight your memory had rather ceased to be reliable. Had become, well, non-existent, really.) Net result of all that had you none too keen on meeting the eyes of the woman serving drinks, uncomfortably aware that she probably did most of the cleaning, too, and it was only after you'd settled down with the blessedly strong coffee that you caught the knowing grin hovering at the edges of her expression. And then Adam had walked in, half-asleep still himself, rubbing his eyes and dropping heavily into the seat beside you, groaning once before dropping his head into his hands, elbows splayed on the table in a way neither of your mothers would have ever let you get away with. And a wide obvious stripe of dried cream across the back of his shoulder, as if following the arc of someone's careless hand.

"Someone bit behind on his washing?" you essayed cautiously, noting that your voice still sounded about as rough as both of you looked. As the still absent Larry and Bono could be assumed to feel.

His reply wasn't precisely verbal, more a tired kind of growl you translated from long practice to be rueful agreement, and you managed another lame comment, something to the effect of, wow, didn't we all drink a lot, and thank God we all made it home in one piece, given that you didn't remember anything yourself and they'd been matching you for drinks, hadn't they? His shoulders shook a little in response, pained laughter to agree, but when he finally picked his head up long enough to inhale most of a cup of coffee (burning his mouth by the startled expression, chased more or less directly by one of resignation, mouth twisting as he took another gulp, shrugging weakly at your raised eyebrow) the bleak look in his eyes turned your stomach.

"Adam…?"

"'s fine," and you'd never heard him sound so low, so quiet. "Really, I'm fine. Just very, very tired. I'll bounce back after a bit of sleep, right? God knows we could all do with more after last night…"

You'd gracefully given in, agreed, let him believe he'd convinced you, but the weeks afterward you'd taken much more notice of what he did, and when, and who with. You watched the way he'd go quiet at odd times, as if to balance out the strident, over-loud tones that Bono seemed to have adopted when it was just the four of you. Watched the way Adam would fold in on himself, solemn and dignified in a way that - no matter what people might think - sat false and unnatural even on him, tucked away in a quiet corner of his own, nursing a drink, or a girl, or even two.

The way Adam would sit silent while you'd all take turns calling home, Bono hogging the phone, earning jokes from the whole crew about newlyweds, good-natured ribbing about who wore the trousers in the household, the frankly adoring look he'd wear talking about her helping his case not a whit. Your own connections with home seemed tame in comparison, quiet and warm, and over fairly quickly, wanting to give the others time before the time changes caught up with you all.

With others around, almost everything was normal, was fine, and you could tell yourself you were just imagining it, that too much time on tour, away from home and your families was letting you retreat too far inside your own head, til you were making up trouble within the family you'd found for yourself on the road.

But you knew, with a sick sort of certainty, that you weren't.

That it was only going to be a matter of days before Larry twigged, or before Paul sat you all down and demanded to know what the problem was.

And as much as you hated to do it, as much as it made you shift nervously and feel clammy and ill, gangly and too-young, not equipped, you figured it was up to you to do something about it. That if you could call yourself any kind of friend, you'd talk to Adam, at least, and find out just what exactly was bothering him, why he and Bono couldn't seem to find any common ground these days at all.

You weren't the only one with that idea, though. You'd finally settled on acting, prepared yourself to corner Adam in his room (conveniently located right next door to you, and well away from every other member of your party) and you were seconds away from knocking, bulling your way into the room with placatory bottles of beer and demanding answers when you heard voices inside. Hand dropping back to your side, you spun on your heel, about to leave him to it, when you recognised the other voice.

Bono.

Your first impulse, embarrassingly enough, was to drop the bottles and eavesdrop shamelessly, but around a second of wrestling with temptation had you spinning on your heel, about to leave them the privacy they obviously needed. And you would have, you really would have, if one violent hiss hadn't somehow crept out the keyhole and to your ears. And you froze.

"Fuck you, Adam."

You've never heard Bono like this. He's furious. Vicious. And Adam… Adam just seems to be taking it. For the first time, you let yourself really imagine just what it is between them these days. Are they…? Are they really- involved? Like that?

"No. No way. You can't keep doing this. You have to let it go. It's not fair to you, and it's not fair to the band. And don't tell me it's not affecting things, we all know it is. Edge noticed something wrong weeks ago. So did Larry. And if you keep walking around with that bloody besotted expression on your face you're going to ruin one of the best things that ever happened to us. I know it fucking hurts, I know it aches, but you have to stop. Stop feeling it. Just- I don't know, Adam, put it in a fucking box and label it 'past'. You can't love someone you work with. It'll tear us all apart."

Silence, and you're still standing there, horror-struck, condensation beading your fingers, the jagged metal of the bottle-caps branded into your palms.

Bono's voice is gentler now, persuasive, snake-charmer working to the limits of his skills.

"You know it's not good for you. For any of us. Please, please, Adam… just… find someone else. I know there's other people out there." Just a tinge of bitterness, now. "God knows you've slept with enough of them."

Adam replies almost instantly, and there's more life in his voice than you have heard in days, a depth of passion that you only vaguely recall ever hearing before now.

"I know. You're right, all right? I know. It doesn't make it any fucking easier. Your wedding-" a raw note, and you wince in response "Jesus, Bono, that was one of the fucking hardest things I've ever done. Having to be sober and responsible and your goddamned best man on top of it all, watching you all so happy and- coupled up-" His voice trails off into nothing, wretched and angry and envious all in a complicated stew - and that's only what you're fairly certain of hearing.

Vague rustling sounds from behind the door, and your mind is quick to provide you with a picture of what must be happening in there, Bono slumping in sympathy, in telling guilt, moving to hold Adam, to be his friend even in such an exquisitely painful situation.

"I'm sorry. I- I didn't know then. It was only after I suspected, that- Jesus, Adam, I wish you'd told me sooner. I know you don't want to hear what I've been telling you, but being furious with me is not going to change anything."

Something mumbled that must've been "I know."

Bono's talking again, and a distant part of your mind is telling you that you really shouldn't be here, you really shouldn't be listening to this, why haven't you left yet, but your feet just don't seem to be moving.

"…look, Adam. You said what happened on Edge's birthday was a mistake. Was one kiss really" an odd note, here, a kind of visceral curiosity, one that makes you somehow even more uneasy with this eavesdropping, this virtual voyeurism "worth all this misery?"

"Considering that it's the only one I'll ever get, yes." He's definite on that point, you note, feeling terribly sorry for him.

"Do you know that for sure?" This seems a curious turn-around for him, and you half-wish, for just a moment, that you could see them now. See why Bono is suddenly extending him this possibility. It seems needlessly cruel, and most unlike him. His devotion to Ali has always been so- so unquestioned.

"Oh, yes." Brittle. "Being shoved away like I was poison incarnate is not exactly something I'm keen to experience twice. Nor is being told in unnecessary detail just exactly why what I wanted is stupid, and wrong, and not ever going to happen, in the most articulate speech I've ever heard from a drunken man."

"Edge really said that?"

What? Why is Bono asking-?

Oh, God.

Fuck.


End file.
